


Town Vs. Gown

by Lucyemers



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Drinking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Related, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, My First Fanfic, Oxford, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post Fugue, Season 1 Spoilers, Sickfic, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-01
Updated: 2016-07-13
Packaged: 2018-05-24 02:26:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6138193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucyemers/pseuds/Lucyemers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I know who you couldn't save"<br/>Morse broods over the past. The stress/wounds sustained during Fugue gets the better of him. Debryn provides help/a listening ear. Lots of Oxford backstory comes to light.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic so I definitely need some constructive criticism. Let me know what you think in the comments, but please be kind! I'm also looking for a beta! Message me on Tumblr at the handle lucyemers if you are interested. Bear in mind I'm American (and would love any suggestions from British readers if the diction seems too American) Sadly, have not seen the most recent season :(

“I know who you couldn’t save”

At 4:00 a.m. he’d played through nearly all his records. He began with his “best”, as Thursday directed, when he was pouring his first glass of scotch, and moved on through his least favorites as each subsequent drink dulled his discerning ear.

And yet..the broken record in his brain continued:

“I know who you couldn’t save”

Louder each time, more desperate, the oppressive presence of Gull growing larger and more looming, even as the room came in and out of focus. He should go to bed. There would be paperwork tomorrow, debriefings, statements to be made. Christ, he’d probably have to give Frazil an interview. Thursday had been insistent he take the day tomorrow. Morse had insisted otherwise. While he had once again caught the responsible party, this time around he had been the cause. The whole macabre spectacle had been a game he had no choice but to play. “One bloody misfit talking to another”. He didn’t take Jakes’s taunting to heart. Not usually. Now, however he couldn’t help worrying how the whole thing would look to Superintendent Bright. Back to general duties where he belongs? Where he can’t incite more psychotic near impossible puzzles?

No, he would be back at work on time tomorrow with his head down. He would play the model policeman for a time. Best not to attract notice at least for a while. He didn’t need to be home tomorrow having nothing to distract him from his cycling brain and aching body, while the other officers discussed the whole affair (and no doubt his part in it) freely in his absence.

He hadn’t planned on still being awake at this hour. But the pain in his side would have kept him up if Gull’s voice hadn’t. As it stood now he could get maybe an hour’s sleep, two if he skipped a shower, before he had to dress and fetch Thursday. He tried to slow his breathing and surrender to the alcohol numbing of his senses.  
Gull didn’t know, he repeated, like a mantra. It wasn’t possible.  
“I know who you couldn’t save.”  
No. It was the bluff of a madman, he told himself as he mercifully drifted towards sleep.  
It had happened long ago. There was a mark on his conscience alone. Gull was trying to rile him even after he had won, to continue terrorizing him even after he was behind bars.

He was stronger than that. He wouldn’t let him.


	2. Chapter 2

The first day back to general duties should have been a relief. No one’s life at stake, no puzzles to solve. The only thing he was wrestling with was a hangover. Typically following a particularly challenging case he relished typing up the case notes. It appealed to his sense of order in the same way he enjoyed filling in the neat little boxes of a crossword. But this morning, those bloody typewriter keys and their clacking. Typically he found Strange’s customary coffee and bacon sandwich an endearing habit. This morning it set his stomach churning. Typically the scent of Thursday’s pipe tobacco brought a smile to his lips, today it brought only a haze to the already spinning room. 

Today wasn’t typical at all. He gave up pretending that it was when just a quarter to six he found himself covertly thrusting his head between his knees and taking slow measured breaths over the bin beneath his desk hoping not to revisit last night’s pitiful supper. The nausea passed, but it was all too clear that fresh air was an immediate necessity, if only to avoid making his hangover vividly known to his colleagues.

He would have escaped without notice if Strange hadn’t intercepted him, smiling good naturedly and clapping him on the shoulder saying, “Pint, Matey? Look like you could do with one.” Truth be told, he only had thoughts of bed. But he couldn’t have slept anyhow. And Strange, stood there, brows knit in concern but trying hard to mask it with his usual ever present smile. Bless him, though. He could tell this invitation was a direct result of Strange deducing his fragile emotional state. Simply put, he was a good friend. And hair of the dog was, supposedly, a good cure. “Why not.”, he conceded.

All the while they were walking Morse became increasingly aware of the sharp, searing pain through the stitches in his side. He was far from steady but Strange was good enough to slow his pace accordingly and pretend not to notice. He mercifully showed the same kind of tact in not calling attention to his equally shaky mood and chattered on happily carrying the bulk of the conversation.

Twenty or so paces away from the pub door Morse began to wonder if Strange was going to need to carry him as well. He stopped abruptly smacked with sudden vertigo. He clapped Strange on the back in a gesture he hoped would come off as camaraderie rather than holding on for dear life.

“Steady on, Matey”, he said taking Morse by the elbow and meeting his gaze solemnly saying, “I can order you a cab instead of a beer you know. You’re looking fairly peakey. Injury acting up?”

Taking a slow breath Morse replied, “No more than to be expected. That’s exactly why I do need a drink.”

Strange looked doubtful but only hovered by his side until they were installed at a table and fortified with two pints of London’s Pride. Two pints later all small talk, which Morse was disastrous with to begin with, was exhausted. Strange suggested ordering some supper. Morse knew it was a good idea. Eventually he would have to walk home and his gait was slowed enough by the pain in his side. He could have used some food on top of that to start to sober him up. But the “hair of the dog”, contrary to what his Oxford mates may have bragged about, had been a piss-poor cure. At this point he was drinking to subdue Gull’s voice in his head that had amplified steadily throughout the day. The nausea had grown worse so he briskly declined the offer of food. He shook his head slightly and made a noncommittal gesture 

“Probably best to warm something up at the flat then. Not on sergeant’s pay yet are we?” Strange chuckled only slightly bitterly. Morse did not take the invitation to usual workplace complaining. He was too busy trying to keep how ill he felt from being readily apparent. 

He could tell Strange was his usual peckish self though, so he followed up with, “but don’t let me keep you.” 

“Sure I can’t walk you home matey?”

He gestured vaguely at the half empty pint he had no intention of finishing. Strange bid him a concerned good evening, leaving Morse to his own thoughts.

What bothered him the most as he replayed the situation over and over in his head was the notion that Gull knew him better than he thought. That he must have seen something in him in that damned fluff piece casting him as the “singing detective” that caused him to pin Morse down, to choose him like a collector would a rare moth, pierced through the heart and set behind glass a dead and decaying trophy. 

He knew he was stuffed full of useless, esoteric, book learning. It was not indicative of where he came from, a scholarship student from a solidly middle class home, never struggling to put food on the table, but never a public school family either. It was not indicative of where he was headed. He thought of Reece’s bemused expression when he’d told him he was in police work. He thought of Jakes’s look of mild disgust whenever he’d had to unwillingly play the pretentious scholar in the past few days. No, his Oxford education had no current purpose but to give him joy. To have sufficient knowledge to comprehend the Italian sung on his records, or give him the answers to fill into his crosswords. 

And yet if Gull had seen him and somehow known just from that brief article that Morse was the type of person who felt the thrill in rich, clever, logic-driven problems, if he had been so certain of his abilities and inclinations that he had used them and, twisted them, and reduced them to this deadly game, then what else did he know about him? He knew enough to ask that question, “who couldn’t you save?” And, Morse thought, as he breath quickened and his heart raced, he claimed to know the answer too.  
He couldn’t stay here, couldn’t continue to sit here and brood. He leapt to his feet, and in doing so upset his chair so that it clattered to the floor. The room rocked and pitched. He broke out into a sweat and tried to find something to grab hold of, something to steady him. He heard a rush of breaking glass and felt his socks dampen, realizing belatedly that he’d knocked the pint glass and was now standing in a puddle of tepid beer and glass shards. He heard voices fade in and out. He felt his stomach twist at the smell of the warm, heavy stout, and began lurching toward the back door that opened onto the alleyway. 

He hadn’t made it more than a few steps, however when the stitches in his side gave an excruciating throb and he was momentarily frozen to the spot but no less dizzy and sick. He felt a gentle hand at his elbow and another around his shoulder. There was a soft voice in his ear saying, “Alright lad, let’s get you some air. No need to make a scene in the pub, eh?”, he half pushed half, half supported Morse to the door and continued speaking to him in a low, calm tone, “That’s it. You’re alright.”

They made it to the alleyway where Morse was immediately sick onto the cobblestones. The man held him by the shoulders to keep him steady. When he was finished and his knees buckled, he lowered him gently so he could sit propped against the outside of the pub wall. As he knelt next to him he winced noticing the red blooming across Morse’s shirt from the stitches that had opened, and realized he was dealing with something more serious that your nightly drunk.

“Alright mate, my friend’s a doctor. Won’t be long.” He vanished back into the pub and Morse sat, breathing slowly, Trying not to think about the blood on his hands that were grasping his side. He felt a hand gently lift his chin and he opened his eyes onto the blurry but unmistakable face of Max DeBryn. 

“Well I’ll be. Fancy meeting you here.” 

Embarrassed, Morse struggle to get up but DeBryn kept a firm hand on his shoulder. “Not, just yet, Morse. Let me give you a proper looking over.” He undid the buttons on Morse’s shirt and tenderly pulled his hands away. 

“A moonlit alley does not make for an optimal examining room to be sure”, DeBryn complained.

“I’m sorry”, Morse slurred.

“For what?” DeBryn balked. “You may be a genius of a detective but I doubt even you can command the heavens to blaze in order that your injuries might be seen to” he muttered as he put a cool hand to Morse’s forehead.

“No, I’m sorry...for...for disturbing your” his voice broke off. He was having a hard time remembering exactly where they were. But there was another man here, wasn’t there? It had not been Max who had lead him out of the pub. 

“For disturbing my what?”, DeBryn prompted in a tone not entirely kind.

“Your...drink.” Morse finished.

“You didn’t,” he murmured. “Though your drink appears to have disturbed you.”

“ ‘ve only had two”, he replied a shade defensively. “Just a bit hungover ‘s all.”

“Oh to be sure” DeBryn replied, “but not just hungover. Also a bit bleeding, and a bit feverish and if I had to venture a guess I would say a bit of an infection. Alright, on your feet”, he took hold of Morse’s elbow and wrapped an arm tightly around his waist, careful to avoid the newly reopened wound, and pulled him to his feet. He shook dangerously for a minute upon regaining his footing but DeBryn held him steady. 

“Take your time”, he soothed. They made their way slowly to DeBryn’s car where he lowered him gingerly into the passenger seat and covered him over with his coat as his shivering increased.

“you know where I live?” Morse asked.

“No, but I know where I live.”

“I’ll be fine at home. Just need sleep”

“And rebandaging and antibiotics and bed rest, and as you blatantly disregarded my advice to rest before, I’m certainly not trusting you to do it this time.”

“But--” he protested weakly.

“Morse, concentrate less on arguing with me and more on not watering my upholstery with the contents of your stomach like you did the cobblestones back there.”

He heard a whispered, “I’ll ring you”, “Sorry about this”, and a hasty, “Good Night” outside the car. And drifted off before the car pulled out.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry this has taken so long. Forgot to mention a few things:
> 
> 1\. The idea for this fic came from a prompt on the newly established Morseverse Prompt Meme here: https://morseverse.dreamwidth.org/ the original prompt was "Morse/Max, hurt/comfort" which I modified a bit after checking with the OP to make it gen instead of slash. Hoping the OP enjoys this chapter as it is much more h/c and much more DeBryn than previous chapters.  
> 2\. I have suffered through many a terrible hangover and DO NOT advocate "hair of the dog". :/  
> 3\. Still very much open to concrit, especially if anything sounds more American than British or if anything sounds out of character.
> 
> Enjoy!

Morse awoke with a jolt as the car came to a stop. Without meaning to he hugged the coat around him tighter fighting the cold that had only worsened as he slept. 

The passenger door opened and DeBryn’s hand was on his shoulder. “Let’s get you inside.”   
Getting inside was easier said than done. They took frequent breaks for Morse to regain his equilibrium. He was becoming unnecessarily familiar with the pattern of the stones making up the walkway. It was taking all his concentration to keep his footing.

“I’m not drunk.” This was important.

“Morse, we’ve been over this. I know. You’re not drunk”, he gave a half sigh as he fumbled with one arm around Morse’s waist and the other unlocking the unassuming townhouse door. Just after stumbling over the threshold he felt DeBryn’s coat falling from his shoulders. Stooping to pick it up he felt the all too familiar white hot pain in his side and curled involuntarily hands held protectively around his middle. There was a ringing in his ears and a darkening tint to his vision as DeBryn hastily steered him sharply to the left depositing him into a chair and taking a firm hand to the back of his head to push it gently between his knees. 

“Slow, deep breaths”, he instructed.

He gulped air greedily trying to move as little as possible. He closed his eyes but the room still pitched and swayed. He needed a steady point to focus on but upon opening his eyes all he saw were his own blood stained hands. His stomach lurched and seconds later found himself retching into the conveniently placed bin at his feet. Left shaking and shameful after this second round of sickness he couldn’t quite meet DeBryn’s eye as he murmured, “S-sorry...sorry. Thank you.”

“I went to Oxford too you know. Attended many a bacchanalian revel in my day. Gave me a certain knack for knowing when a chap was going to upchuck.” Morse winced at the word but DeBryn was unphased, nudging the bin aside, handed him a small towel to wipe his mouth. Then he gently pulled his hands one by one into his own and used a damp cloth to clean away the offending stains.

Peering at the floor rather than his hands he answered, “I’m not some drunken undergraduate, you know.” 

“I do know”, DeBryn returned earnestly. “At this point I rather wish that you were. I could have brewed you some coffee and put you on the sofa to sleep it off. The whole evening would have played out as farce. Instead you and I are suffering through a bit of poorly written melodrama. Blood on your hands and your over-played apologetic refrain, it’s a bit much, you know.” 

Strangely emotional Morse could do nothing but choke out, “Sorry” once again, feeling tears prick his eyes in frustration at his inability to do or say anything else. He blinked them away furiously and found that DeBryn’s hand was on his forehead now and he was standing over him all trace of sarcasm having left his face.

“You’re alright Morse, that’ll be the fever talking. Seems like it’s on the rise. Infection’ll do that.” Gently unbuttoning Morse’s shirt, he peered at the wound he had stitched up not but two days prior. Morse looked away but heard DeBryn clucking disapprovingly “You didn’t take care of this properly. I’ll pick you up some anti-biotics but you may be in for a rough few days. You’ll stay here.” It was a statement, not a question.

“I’m--”

“No, don’t apologize”, DeBryn snapped. “And don’t argue.” He sighed exasperated as he moved towards the sink. “I’m going to fix your stitches and then you need rest.”

DeBryn’s usual sarcastic cheer was abruptly gone. Morse realized slower than he should have that it was due to his concern for him. He should have been comforted by this but he only felt guilt. It was not something he had ever dealt with well: to be worried about, fussed over. As DeBryn cleaned the wound and repaired his stitches he allowed his eyes to roam the homey but fastidiously neat kitchen, hungry for anything to keep his mind off the sharp, dizzying pain. The room smelled vaguely of rosemary. He found himself surprisingly distracted by the memory of a similar situation. 

He was home from Oxford the week following the letter he had received from Susan that had driven him into a cloud of depression so thick it had driven him home where he hadn’t emerged from his bed in three days. He had passively dealt with Gwen’s taunts and shouts from his doorway until she had finally given up. He remembered being woken from a haze by Joyce’s hand on his forehead and similarly concerned eyes. She’d said nearly the same thing. 

“You’re alright, but you’ve a bit of a fever.” She smoothed the hair away from his eyes. “You’ll stay here.” It was a statement from Joyce too rather than a question. Even looking back through the years he didn’t know if she meant that he would wait out this particular bout of depression and illness at home, or if she somehow already could sense that the academic life was over for him. “You’ve had a rough few days. You need rest.” He hadn’t replied. Hadn’t grasped her hand or thanked her for her concern. Hadn’t tearfully told her she was the only reason he came home anymore. She had smiled, bent low to kiss him on the top of his hair, and bustled away to brew him some tea. As if he deserved any of that from Joyce. As if he weren’t lying there mourning an irreparable blot on her future as well as his. Not that she would have known it at the time.

After Debryn helped him into a tiny guest room at the bottom of the stairs, produced a somewhat musty quilt when his chills returned, and wished him a goodnight, being concerned enough to leave the door open so that he could hear should Morse need anything in the night, he felt himself slowly drift into a feverish sleep, mind singularly focused on Joycie.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is a bit longer than I had originally thought... Getting a little caught up with some OC's. Or maybe I'm just putting off writing the proper flashbacks? Hope you are all still enjoying anyway.

“She melts!” The relative quiet after such a ringing shout was disconcerting. Morse tried to catch his breath as he found himself bolt upright in an unfamiliar bed, but upon realizing that the person who had been shouting had been him, and recalling why he had been shouting, he began pulling at the twisted sheets and stumbled out of the bed closing the small gap between it and the door. Grabbing hold of the open door frame he called out into the empty hallway, “What’s the time?” A man with mop of ginger hair and a concerned smile came bustling out of what Morse could only assume was the kitchen going by the thick smell of thyme about him. 

“Time for you to be in bed, mate”, he said, taking him by the shoulders and gently steering him back into the bedroom. 

“No!” Morse insisted. Somehow he was sitting on the bed again. “No, what’s the time?”

“Quarter of ten”, he replied pushing him gently back onto the pillows and lifting his legs back onto to the bed so that he was lying flat. “What’s your hurry?” Morse sat up again and grabbed the wrist of this stranger who had begun pulling the sheets and blankets back over him. 

“In the morning?” The man nodded. “Debbie Snow!”, Morse continued, nearly shouting now, “She’s the Snow Maiden. She melts at dawn. Quarter of ten...Quarter of ten, we’re too late.” He had started to shake.

“Listen mate…” blinking through tears of panic he saw bright green eyes meet his own, “I don’t know anything about a Snow Maiden. Max said you might be a bit disoriented. You’ve got a fever, but you’ll be fighting fit when he gets back and can get some antibiotics in you. Nobody’s in danger. You can relax.” 

He let go of the man’s wrist that he realized he’d been squeezing. The relief was overwhelming. Falling back onto the pillows his side gave a dull throb and everything came back to him. “Oh my god.” He sighed. “Oh my god. I’m so sorry.” 

“Nothing to be sorry for”, said the man though he did look a bit frightened at the outburst. “Let’s see if we can get this fever down a bit while we’re waiting, eh?” 

A few minutes later he felt a cold flannel on his forehead and heard, “I would tell you go back to sleep, but I’ve been instructed to try and get some food into you so you’re not taking medicine on an empty stomach.” Morse opened his eyes and was suddenly struck by where he’d heard that voice before and that particular Irish lilt. 

“You helped me out of the pub last night. Thank you.”

“Of course. I work in a pub, myself. Used to ushering particularly green looking drunks outside so they don’t make a mess on the floor.”

“I wasn’t drunk”, Morse shot out a bit too insistently.

“Oh, no I know that now, don’t I? I’m just saying it was no trouble. I didn’t realize you were in such a bad way. I was only glad I just happened to be having a drink with a doctor, and the same one that stitched you up at that. I’m James Lynch, by the way.”

“Morse.”

“What, no Christian name?”

“No…” When James continued to look at him expectantly he replied a bit irritably, “You can call me Pagan if you’d like.”

“Whatever you say”, said James as he straightened the sheets and quilt, no doubt thinking this last statement was also the consequence of a fevered brain.

“Never mind”, he said.

***

He hadn’t realized he was dozing until he was awakened by a firm shake and found DeBryn peering over him. “Back to the land of the living are we?”

“Don’t feel much like it,” Morse replied.

DeBryn helped him to sit up and pushed a glass of water into this hands, keeping a firm hold on them until he knew they were steady. “Sip that slowly and we’ll see if you are up for anything else.” 

“Met your friend,” said Morse between sips. “Why was he making soup at quarter of ten?” 

DeBryn raised his eyebrows as he sat on the edge of the bed. “He smelled of thyme and onion”, Morse replied.

“Well done detective. You may be too ill to know precisely where you are, but you are ever vigilant in deducing all the minutia of our little lives, saints save us.”

“He told you about that?” 

“That you made a grand entrance making declarations about lost little girls and Rimsky-Korsakov? Yes, he did. Think you rather scared the poor soul.” 

Morse didn’t speak but stared at the intricate pattern on the quilt. DeBryn broke the silence saying hesitantly but gently, “It’s acceptable to be haunted by our line of work you know. Particularly when you are suffering physically as well.”

“Is it?”, Morse scoffed. “Doesn’t seem to ‘haunt’ anyone else as you say.” 

“I’ve been at the station longer that you. My official job title is pathologist, but I can’t tell you how many young officers have made surreptitious visits to my office requesting cures for insomnia, nausea, lethargy, fatigue. Typically there isn’t anything apparently wrong with them. Physically, I mean. That’s the operative word. It’s a profession that wears on you.”

Morse didn’t take the implied invitation to talk about his own particular hauntings. He hadn’t intended to foist himself upon DeBryn and was self conscious enough about his own need to be treated like a patient by a colleague whose occupation was far from nurse. Instead he said, “I didn’t call the station. I was supposed to pick up Inspector Thursday this morning.” 

“I called for you”, DeBryn answered. “Told them I’d popped round to check on you last night and found you with a touch of flu.” 

“You didn’t--”

“What?” DeBryn interrupted voice feigning innocence, “I didn’t tell them I found you attempting to drink your way to a cure for an infected wound that you got trying to singlehandedly pursue a psychotic maniac whose particular madness had picked your astoundingly clever academic mind as a worthy opponent? Now I don’t possess your skills of deduction but I gleaned you might not want the Chief Superintendent reminded of all that in the midst of heavy paperwork.”

Damn, but he was perceptive. Gaping, Morse could only respond with, “Thank you.”

“To answer your earlier question, James was making soup at quarter of ten because I told him to try and get some food into you, and being a cook he doesn’t take this order lightly.” 

He handed him a mug of hot broth that had the same odor of thyme and onions and a pungent bit of garlic as well. After a few sips he handed the mug back saying, “It’s a really lovely soup I just don’t know how much of it I can keep down.”

“Ah well, valiant effort. Simple broth would have been more appetizing, I’m sure, but James doesn’t do anything by halves.” Setting the mug aside DeBryn produced a bottle of pills tapping two into Morse’s hand. “Focus on taking those and finishing that water then.”

“I’m sorry he went through the trouble.” Morse said miserably. 

“No trouble”, DeBryn returned, “It’s a roux and will make a highly serviceable base for a proper supper. You’re staying until your fever’s down and you have an appetite.” This as before was a statement and not a question. And to prevent Morse from arguing, as he knew he would, DeBryn chose that moment to place a thermometer in his mouth. “Rest now. You can take full advantage of his culinary masterpieces later.”

So he would be staying for supper, regardless of how long it took him to be up for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pagan is a reference to a episode of Inspector Morse. Morse says that when he refused to tell his classmates at Oxford his "christian name" they nicknamed him Pagan.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took me long enough to update. Apologies. More to follow soon.

His fever got worse before it got better. He was in and out of consciousness, back and forth between burning and freezing. He had a vague awareness of James waking him, trying to coax him to sip from a glass of water, and later DeBryn changing his bandages, occasionally reassuringly squeezing his shoulder as his breath hitched in panic. But aside from these few moments of lucidity he was trapped in his dreams. They began as a haunting series of tableau's of Gull’s victims, but quickly morphed into faces from his own life, faces of those he loved. These faces were less frightening but more vivid, and when he finally emerged from his delirium, these were the faces at the forefront of his imagination, so much so that he was genuinely startled and surprised that the room around him slowly coming into focus had none of the trappings of his Oxford rooms, and that the face of the man sitting beside his bed was that of a recent acquaintance, and not one of long cherished familiarity. 

“James?” he whispered. 

A smile pricked at the edges of weary eyes and he replied, “Think your fever’s broken. Took you long enough.”

“I’m sorry.” Morse replied.

“S’alright.” He looked exhausted but relieved. Surely he’d not been so ill as to have been in any danger? DeBryn would have known this but James, he reminded himself, was not a doctor.

“Have you been here the whole time? You didn’t need to do that.”

“I work evenings at the pub. Can’t have Max skipping out on work to play nursemaid during the day.”

 

Morse grimaced. “I’m sure you’d rather be at home than--” he broke off awkwardly, “oh, unless…” he didn’t finish. “Sorry.”

James didn’t answer. After a beat he began tidying the bedside table absently sighing the words, “You say that a lot. What are you sorry for?”

“Nothing...everything. I don’t know.” He knew he wasn’t making sense. He was still feeling a bit confused, but even so he’d managed to deduce enough to pry into the affairs of the man who knew next to nothing about him but still tended him as one would a sick child. 

“Think I’ll stop you there, detective.” 

Morse peered up at the doorway to see DeBryn and wondered how much of the conversation he had overheard. James stood abruptly, patting Morse on the back awkwardly as he did so, “Glad you’re back with us”, he said to the wall above Morse’s head and made a hasty exit saying, “I’m off to work. Enjoy supper.” 

“Supper.” Morse remembered. 

“Hardly dressed for it, are you?” DeBryn quipped as he sat on the edge of the bed. 

Morse bristled feeling suddenly very in need of a bath and a change of clothes, and other more pressing matters. 

“I need the...um...” 

“Of course. Through the door and to the left. Need a hand making the trip?” DeBryn looked almost amused as Morse stood cautiously by the bed. 

“No, I’m fine.” Trying to wave off his hovering hands actually broke his fragile equilibrium. Just as his knees buckled DeBryn caught him round the waist and pulled his arm round his shoulders, returning him to at least a semblance of steadiness.

“Clearly, quite fine”, he murmured. 

***  
After a bath, a change of clothes (that Morse presumed belonged to James), tea, and a few biscuits, he was beginning to feel more like a human being again. A few hours later he had sat at the same kitchen table as a few nights prior, tucking into a subdued but delicious supper.The kitchen was sparse but meticulously organized. He remembered Gwen’s kitchen back home that had the consistent smell of boiled cabbage. His father had fussed if there hadn’t been meat on the table. Joyce would sometimes pick up a few beef pasties in town if she knew Gwen was trying to stretch wages. But then their father had fussed when the pasties were cold. It hadn’t been until he’d been up at Oxford that he’d tasted meals with any nuance of spice. The supper at hand could hardly have been called gourmet, but was hearty, and he hoped his normal appetite might mean he could convince his host of a full enough recovery to be trusted to look after himself at home. DeBryn wouldn’t hear of his help with the dishes and showed him into a small sitting room while he did the washing up. 

Feeling restless he passed the sofa and was drawn immediately to the bookshelves. They were not nearly as organized as the spice rack due in part, he suspected, to their inability to accommodate the multitudes contained within. It would have sent an Oxford librarian, or even a bookstore clerk into fits. Not only was authority blatantly disregarded but, subject heading was clearly an afterthought. Anatomy textbooks were shoved in with Homer and the Audubon guide was resting next to Dorian Gray. The OED took up half the top shelf and was only separated from Endymion by Tess of The D’Urbervilles. Removing a copy of The Inspector General from the shelf he dislodged a large volume and sent it flying to the floor. Picking it up he discovered Mastering the Art of French Cooking. In opening to the table of contents his eyes flickered across an inscription on the inside cover, “October 5th, 1963. Happy Birthday, Love. Max.” He closed the book and was in the process of shelving it when a DeBryn startled him. The book fell back to the ground as he entered the room, wiping his hands on a dishcloth and saying, “You’re welcome to anything that strikes you.”

“Thank you. I’ll bear it in mind, but I’ve a few more at home than I can find time to appreciate just now.” He picked up the book and turned to the shelf.

“Do you miss it?”

“What?”

“Do you miss the pursuit of the literary life?” Morse paused and turned to look back at DeBryn, struck by the question. “You studied Greats at Oxford unless I’m mistaken.”

“How did you…”

“Station gossip is rather relentless, Morse.” He joined him by the bookshelf. “Secrets find their way to discovery unless you make a concerted effort to keep them.” He joined him at the bookshelf and gently took the book from his hands. “Of course it all depends on whether you trust the discretion of those who find you out.” He reshelved the book and touched the spine almost affectionately for just a moment before turning back to him. “If there’s anything you’d rather keep private in your life perhaps you should make more of a concerted endeavour?” His face was all innocence but he’d paused on the last word, and Morse couldn’t suppress a half amused, half frustrated scoff. In spite of himself he smiled back before saying, not without some gravity, “I can’t see any reason my private affairs are the business of anyone else at the station. Same principle applies to my colleagues I should think.” DeBryn’s mask of cleverness slipped and revealed a flash of exhausted relief, “glad you think so”, he murmured, but his usual cheer was back when he gestured toward an arm chair that Morse, still a bit shaky gratefully accepted. 

“Do you miss it?” DeBryn asked sitting on the sofa opposite him.

“I--” even the second time the question caught him off guard so he made no bother with any pretence, “yes”, he answered simply. Heaving a sigh he continued, “I miss stories that made sense. Followed a pattern. Had meaning.” 

“Yes,” DeBryn agreed. “I’ve seen so many people on my table whose stories I’ll never really know and have no overarching narrative. I miss it too.”

“You studied medicine, surely?” 

“No, Morse, I’m actually just a civilian with no formal training butchering your corpses for the sheer thrill of it.” He peered wryly over his glasses. “No, I started at Oxford in English Literature.” He crossed to a sideboard picking up a decanter pouring a splash into a tumbler. “Would have been about five years before your time I should think.” He took a sip and was about to put the stopper back in before saying as an afterthought, “You shouldn’t but, drink?” 

He felt the familiar top note of craving with that aftertaste of shame. He hated his hesitation, which lasted only a moment, but felt much longer. “No” he said a bit too pointedly, “I should not.” He changed the subject, “why did you leave the literary life?”

DeBryn took another sip before replying, “same reason you left I should think.” When Morse didn’t respond he continued, “Affairs of the heart”, he said with a self consciously dramatic gesture of the glass.

“Why would you assume--?”

“You’ve been ill in my spare bedroom for the past few days. You talk in your fever as many are wont to do. No shame in it.”

He could feel his breath catching. He ran a hand through his hair trying to remain calm, his other hand gripping the arm of the chair. “What did I--?”

“I’m sorry, Joycie.” 

He froze. He shut his eyes. Took a slow breath.

“Feeling alright?”

“I’m fine.” He opened his eyes. “But you’re wrong.” He reconsidered, “Or not wrong as such.” He swallowed, “I was engaged.” He rubbed his eyes. How could he feel so weary after so much sleep? “But you’re wrong about Joycie. She’s my sister.”

DeBryn moved back to the sofa and asked quietly and simply, without subtext or overtones, “Want to tell me about it?”

And Morse found that astonishingly, and perhaps inadvisably, he did.


End file.
